


The Doctor, the Wizard, and the Washing Machine

by amidtheflowers



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Brotp, Crack, F/M, Friendship, Gen, abbie remains a badass, ichabod battles modern technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:02:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amidtheflowers/pseuds/amidtheflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod battles boredom by tinkering around the house and discovering Netflix. Abbie shows supreme restraint of keeping her gun in her holster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doctor, the Wizard, and the Washing Machine

She knew it was a bad idea.

Well, no, she didn’t—she didn’t really consider the consequences at hand when she dumped three remotes into Ichabod Crane’s lap with a few instruction manuals. But knew it would shut him up for a while, and that was all Abbie was concerned with. He’d been complaining loudly all night about being forced to stay home while Abbie solved the case of the murder pattern.

“What is it now?” he said with a frown, inspecting the various remotes as one would inspect a jar of insects.

“Remote controls. One controls the TV, one controls the DVD player, and one controls the cable.”

“Fascinating,” said Ichabod with a raised eyebrow, his attention already moving to the manuals.

Abbie merely folded her arms. “I have a lot of paperwork to get done at the station, and since I can’t have you hovering around me all the time or straying out of the house, it’s time you were caught up to speed in what you missed these past 200 years.” She strode to her bag and plucked out a few books and DVDs, and handed them to Ichabod as well.

“The books cover world history, and the documentaries cover all the major wars you missed out on. Knock yourself out, Crane.”

“Knock myself? It would by highly illogical not to mention improbable for me to render myself unconscious with the brute force of my own fist—”

The front door slammed shut.

 

* * *

 

Twelve hours and two energy drinks later, the door to Abbie’s home swung open.

The television was still on. She could see a faint flickering glow in her bedroom, and this made her brows knit together tightly. Striding to her room, Abbie paused at the scene before her.

Ichabod no longer wore the tattered jacket and dated clothing he was oft seen wearing; instead, he sported a grey military shirt that barely fit and track pants, sitting cross-legged in front of her television, his eyes glued to the screen in rapt attention.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Educating myself, left-tenant.”

“You’re in my room.”

“The bed is more comfortable than your sofa.”

“What are you doing in my clothes? And—are you watching _Harry Potter_?”

“My previous garments were starting to odorize. They are in your metal machine being washed as we speak,” Ichabod responded somewhat subdued.

Abbie raised an eyebrow. “You figured out how to use the washing machine?”

“I _do_ have eyes, you know,” Ichabod finally looked away from the television and pinned her with a flinty stare. “I observed it and approached it logically. As for the latter question—yes, I am watching the film series that was beside your television table.”

Abbie looked at him speechlessly. Shrugging in wonder, she asked, “What was wrong with the documentaries?”

“Nothing,” said Ichabod honestly. “I finished them and grew angry at the books. This was a sufficient distraction from the wretchedness of this century, and of my predicament.” He pointed to the television. “Now this boy, he has had a worse life than I. His parents murdered in his infancy, forced to live in a closet, then nearly killed in every film by the nefarious supporters of Lord Voldemort? And I was complaining of the horsemen,” Ichabod snorted and shook his head, continuing to watch what looked like _Half-Blood Prince_.

“At least you figured out how to work the TV and the DVD player,” Abbie muttered, sauntering out of the room and heading to the washing machine. It was thrumming quietly and Abbie opened the door to peek inside. Her eyes went wide. “Why is there silver syrupy goop inside this?” Abbie paused. “Why does this smell like my shampoo?”

Ichabod was banned from touching the washing machine ever again without adult supervision.

 

* * *

 

The next day proved to be even more grueling than before, and when Abbie walked into her apartment and kicked off her shoes, she was very annoyed to see a light flickering in her room once more.

“You need to stop using my TV, Crane,” said Abbie bluntly, kicking off her shoes. “Go in the living room; it has Netflix set up on it.”

“Netflix?” Ichabod looked up at her inquisitively, and Abbie noticed he was watching an episode of _How It’s Made_. “What is that?”

After showing him how to use it, Ichabod remained at the TV for the rest of the night while Abbie slept, though sometimes she could hear a brief sniffle coming from the living room as an episode of _Supernatural_ play in the background.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, this is getting unhealthy,” Abbie hauled Ichabod from the TV and forced him to his room. “Put on some clothes; we’re going out.”

“But the Doctor—this show provides a fascinating take what defines a person as a worthy human—” Ichabod protested loudly as she shoved him to the pile of washed clothes on his bed.

“So do a thousand other shows, but you’ve had enough,” Abbie glared. “Either you get some air and do something else with your life, or it’s no more television _ever_.”

“I am not a child for you to discipline,” Ichabod’s eyes flashed angrily, yet his voice did not betray his emotion.

Abbie nodded, “True, but as I’m feeding and clothing you at the moment, listening to your guardian seems fair. And it’s for your own good, Crane,” Abbie rolled her eyes. She couldn’t believe she was even _having_ this kind of conversation with a grown man.

They left the house and took a walk around the park. She bought them cups of coffee as they strolled, and Ichabod seemed to revert back to his usual self again, something Abbie was surprised that it relieved her.

“Thank you for this,” Ichabod said sincerely as they reentered her apartment. “I didn’t realize how bad I had gotten with the television.”

“It happens to us all at some point,” Abbie shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with watching things—but too much of anything isn’t good for you.”

“Wise words from a wise woman,” Ichabod acknowledged. “But the boredom of remaining in this home is still a problem.”

“Poke around the house,” Abbie shrugged. “Discover things. Don’t be afraid of messing up stuff—except the washer and dryer. You’re still not allowed to touch those.”

Ichabod nodded absently as he retreated to his room. “I shall think on it.”

 

* * *

 

Ichabod was on her laptop the next morning, and Abbie nearly had a coronary.

He gave a shout of surprise when she sat and pushed against him, and made sure he hadn’t disastrously destroyed it.

She sighed in relief. “It’s still working. Okay. Good. You figured out how to use the internet pretty quickly, and yet I’m not that surprised.”

“I guess your speech from last night was fanciful poppycock?” Ichabod said in a highly offended tone. Abbie blinked and realized she had practically thrown him off the couch when she’d sat down. She smiled sheepishly.

“No, I…this was really expensive, so….” Ichabod raised an eyebrow and instantly Abbie scowled. “Don’t do anything stupid or this will be off-limits too. Understood?”

“Clearly.”

Abbie didn’t stay at the station as late as she usually would, and the sun was still out by the time she walked in the door. Her nostrils were instantly met with a scent wafting from the kitchen, and Abbie was both afraid and intrigued.

Ichabod had donned her frilly pink apron with a frog pattern and had it tied proudly around his waist and neck. The oven was on and the stove had a few pots simmering on it, and Abbie noticed her laptop was wedged on the corner of the counter with a youtube video paused on the screen.

“You’re shitting me.”

Ichabod looked like he wanted to remark but refrained. Instead he smiled cheerfully and set the spatula in his hand down and walked towards her. Abbie blanched at the cake that was behind him, half decorated.

“How much stuff did you, uh, cook?” Abbie asked worriedly.

“Anything I could get my hands on,” said Ichabod brightly. “There is a soufflé rising in the oven, along with roast chicken and a pot of steamed vegetables. The pavlova was just to test my abilities.”

“Pavlova…?” Abbie shook her head, and looked up at Ichabod. “Crane, where the hell did you get thick-framed glasses, and _why_?”

At this, Ichabod perked up. “I convinced the officer guarding this apartment to make his colleague buy me a pair.”

“He—how did you convince him to do that?”

Ichabod chuckled in a way that was completely foreign and made Abbie frown deeply. Her hand itched to move towards the gun still in her holster.

“I told him the truth. The internet has showed me strange tales of female fascination with these glasses, men with a British accent, and who have some culinary skill.” He smiled. “Are you impressed yet, left-tenant?”

Abbie stared at him for a full minute. “You want to start coming with me to the station and solve this horseman mystery, don’t you.”

“God, yes.”

“You start tomorrow. Be up by 5.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, there it is! My first SH fic. Also, dreadfully unbeta’d, so I apologize beforehand. I normally would’ve liked to write something less domestic, but considering there’s only been 3 episodes and Ichabod’s interaction with the 21st century is absolutely hilarious, I felt the need to write this.


End file.
